


The Wicked Die Young (I'm Still Waiting)

by GivreFleur



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Aging, Alternate Universe - Future, Angst, Dysfunctional Relationship, Eventual Smut, Existential Crisis, Fix-It of Sorts, Love/Hate, M/M, Past unrequited love, Post-Canon, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Where Is the Plot?, but it's not eventual, frenemies to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:54:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23141284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GivreFleur/pseuds/GivreFleur
Summary: "“I’m growing old, Izaya... I don’t want to kill you anymore. I can’t keep chasing after you forever. It doesn’t make any sense.”“Liar.” Izaya’s lips curl up into a cold smile, sharp as steel and bones. “Shizu-chan hates me.”“Right. You should be happy, then.”Izaya is not." — In which Izaya struggles with the concept of change and Shizuo doesn't know how to let go.
Relationships: Heiwajima Shizuo/Orihara Izaya
Comments: 29
Kudos: 67





	1. Changes

**Author's Note:**

> I've been watching/reading Durarara!! again these days, and after many years, I think I finally found the story I wanted to write about Izaya and Shizuo. Too bad I feel it doesn't fit very well with the canon ending. I decided to make this an AU where their last fight did not end worse than any other of their fight, and though Izaya made the decision to disappear from Ikebukuro on his own, he had kept coming back to annoy Shizuo for old time's sake or something. 
> 
> I suppose they're close to 30. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy! Also, as usual, English is not my native language so I apologize for possible improper grammar. 
> 
> ♥

“That’s it. I’m done.”

“You’re done with what?”

“I’m growing old, Izaya... I don’t want to kill you anymore. I can’t keep chasing after you forever. It doesn’t make any sense.”

He stubs out his cigarette under a nicely polished shoe, as if to stress his point. Izaya furrows his brows, unable to decide whether that’s just a new trick, a ruse to get him to drop his guard even for a split second, so he keeps his knife pointed at Shizuo and grits his teeth.

“Liar.” Izaya’s lips curl up into a cold smile, sharp as steel and bones. “Shizu-chan _hates_ me.”

Shizuo lets out a heavy sigh, tipping his head back to look at the sky, all flaming clouds and smears of indigo. His shoulders seem to collapse under the weight of the world. “Right. You should be happy, then.”

Izaya doesn’t notice him leaving.

+

Izaya is not happy. It’s only been two weeks since they last saw each other, two small weeks since Shizuo has turned his back on him. They should have been insignificant, but they feel like years and he still can’t begin to understand what happened. It’s always been like this. Find him, play him and run for it. There is not a single reason he can think of that would explain this sudden change. He never even thought it could change. He hasn’t seen this coming and the idea alone makes him strangely nauseous. He can’t accept it. He can’t let Shizuo decide, can’t let a monster force him to do what he doesn’t want to.

_Who does he think he is?_

For many days, he roams the once familiar streets of his fallen kingdom with anger and purpose. The buildings watch him – their gleaming, empty eyes are an untold warning. He feels the heat of concrete and tar like there’s a personal hell burning underneath, waiting to swallow him whole. The city _reeks_ of gasoline, of deep-fried food and restaurant trash left to rot in back alleys, of piss and blood, of loneliness and lurking madness. It all clings to his skin, as surely and as tightly as the fabric of his skinny black pants.

For even more days, he melts into the shadows where he used to thrive. They are faithful confidants. They are permanent, they haven’t changed in years. Shadows make for easy, charitable accomplices – they never ask for anything in return because they have been here before him and will still be long after he’s gone, yet there will always be someone willingly giving themselves over to them. In their cold, unconcerned embrace, he listens and asks and bribes and threatens. It’s never been this hard to _find him_.

But another week soon passes by, and Izaya starts to wonder how Shizuo could have convinced an entire district to abruptly and completely forget about his existence.

As it turns out, Shizuo hasn’t. Izaya has just been unlucky, and he can’t really ignore the fact that he doesn’t know Ikebukuro all that well now. He decides it doesn’t matter, because he has finally found Shizuo and all his attention is focused on a point on the man’s back as he discreetly follows him for a while, hands in his pockets and a perky, up to no good smile playing on his lips.

“ _Shizu-chan... !_ ” he sing-songs, eventually catching up on him. For a split second, he can see a tingle of fury in the other’s eyes and Izaya flashes him his worst, smuggest grin – but then, it’s gone. Shizuo has stopped dead in his tracks and is staring blankly at him, his face devoid of any sign of irritation. Has he cut his hair? Does he look thinner? Izaya finds himself at a loss for words. He’s not used to that, but he refuses to let his smirk fade out.

“Izaya. What do you want?” Shizuo’s voice is painfully calm, with just the slightest hint of annoyance that could have been simple exhaustion. They’ve never stood so close to each other without fighting, Izaya notices, and he can feel bitterness on his tongue as he struggles to overcome the lump in his throat. 

“How _rude_ of you to assume that I’d want anything from you.” he manages to retort, spreading his arms, fists still in his pockets and leaning backward for dramatic effect. “I wanted to check up on you is all. I haven’t seen you in _years_.” he whines with an exaggerated sigh, a hand planted on a lopsided hip, but Shizuo doesn’t react. He just looks at him, the same way he’d be watching a poor, after-hours television show.

“It’s barely been a month.”

“Oh, so you keep track? Shizu-chan, that’s so _sweet_!” He skips toward Shizuo and playfully bats his eyes, dark and taunting under long lashes. “It’s alright, I missed you too.”

And, all of a sudden, he’s firmly gripping Shizuo’s arm with both hands, fingers clawing at the soft fabric of his shirt, like he’s a lost child or an enamoured schoolgirl wanting to draw attention. Time stops flying by. As Shizuo lets his gaze drop to Izaya’s hands and _stares_ , the latter realizes he has crossed a line he didn’t even know was there. Shizuo’s skin is burning white hot, so unbearably scorching under his touch that he soon finds he can no longer feel his palms. His flesh has melted and merged with Shizuo’s arm.

“Get lost, Izaya. I told you, I’m not looking for a fight. We’re done here _._ ” the man states with the same, foreign quietness in his voice that Izaya doesn’t recognize. Shizuo shakes him off effortlessly and doesn’t bother to spare him a glance as he resumes his evening walk, leaving him confused and hands _burnt_ to what feels like the third degree.

“Shizu-chan is getting awfully boring.” he tries in a pitiful attempt at getting him to turn around. “Old and _boring_! I can’t believe you’re giving up so easily! Are you just going to let me win? To let me get away with what I _did_?”

But Shizuo can’t hear him and even though Izaya can’t see him anymore, he keeps shouting at the silence. The silence doesn’t care enough to shout back.

+

Izaya is adaptative and stubborn, and it’s only a matter of days before he comes up with a reinterpretation of their routine. He’s not subtle about it. More often than not, he catches Shizuo out when he’s on his walk home. Shizuo never goes through any kind of effort to avoid him though, never tries another path – he always sticks to his usual course across the most unfrequented streets, but then, it only makes sense that Shizuo wouldn’t be afraid of running into a few thugs. What doesn’t make sense is why he has simply chosen to bear with Izaya’s insufferable company and obvious determination to make him snap.

Tonight, the sky is heavily packed with ominous, dark clouds and the world has become a monochrome painting. The only thing out of place in this grey ocean of concrete, smoke and storm is Shizuo’s blond hair, moving slowly with every step he takes. Izaya is carelessly hopping beside him, an endless, incoherent stream of words flowing out of his smiling mouth and spilling onto the pavement. He’s been speaking nonsense and non-stop since he got here, a new kind of harassment that only seems to go over Shizuo’s head like it’s not even there. Izaya’s silence would be worse than his chatter, and there’s a possibility that it is the reason why Shizuo allows him to talk. It’s not like he’s listening, anyway. 

“… So, I tell her: ‘Now, why would you ever think _purple_ is the right colour for your curtains?’ because her flat is all yellow and it’s already _horrifying_ enough as it is, don’t you think, Shizu-chan? How some people can lack something as basic a simple _taste_ is beyond me. Ah, but I wonder what Shizu-chan’s monster den looks like! It’s probably a stinking shithole, I don’t trust a beast like you to have any means of understanding a concept as sophisticated as the art of living…”

Shizuo doesn’t answer. He never does. He just keeps on walking, cigarette dangling from his slack lips, lost in thoughts or downright dead inside – Izaya can’t quite tell, and it’s infuriating. If Shizuo had always been this capable of putting up with his mere presence, he wonders why they decided to spend almost half of their lives at each other’s throat. He doesn’t like to dwell on that.

And then, Shizuo pauses to casually lean against a wall and his eyes are on Izaya at last, like he’s only noticing the other one is here. It’s weird to see him without his sunglasses and Izaya can’t help but grimace under the naked stare.

“You’re never gonna leave me alone, are you?” Shizuo asks as he lights yet another cigarette. Izaya watches the quick motion of his fingers over the lighter.

“I hope you didn’t hurt you brain in order to get to this remarkably elaborate conclusion.” he mocks him, false concern all over his pale face, but Shizuo takes a slow drag without even frowning and then exhales. It builds a wall of smoke between them. 

“Why won’t you?” he insists and Izaya shifts his weight to his other leg, tilting his hips in the process.

“Why would I?” Izaya snaps back in a condescending tone, arms tightly crossed over his chest. That does the trick, as Shizuo sighs and rolls his eyes – the first real reaction Izaya is able to get out of him in weeks. 

“You never do things unless you find some kind of _fun_ in it. I just don’t get what it is that you think is amusing, right now.”

Izaya snorts and shrugs hopelessly. “I should just stop assuming you have enough intelligence to understand the obvious. You _hate_ me and I walk home with you almost every night – of course, it’s fun! I get to piss you off and you don’t even _try_ to stop me because you’re so old and boring now!”

“You’ve seen me pissed off, before. How can you still believe your plan is going so well?” Shizuo tells him, the corner of his lips curling up into a small, incomprehensible smile. With blistering speed, Izaya has launched himself forward, pulling his switchblade out in a movement that would be impossible for human eyes to follow – but Shizuo isn’t exactly human and his hand jerks up to catch Izaya’s wrist mid-air. The knife slips out of his owner’s hold and meets the ground with an eerie clinking sound that echoes forever down the empty street.

Shizuo lifts his cigarette to his lips, perfectly able to restrain a squirming, enraged Izaya with the force of only one arm. He has the common decency to blow his smoke in the opposite direction. When he turns his face again, he’s met with bared teeth and dim, crimson eyes glaring at him.

“Let _go_ off me!” Izaya demands while still struggling to break free, pushing and pulling and punching – all to no avail.

“Hey, quit it. You’re gonna break your wrist.” Shizuo scolds him like he’s a capricious child having a fit in front of a candy store, and though his voice is firm and low, there is no trace of aggressivity in it.

“ _Excuse me?_ You’re gonna break my wrist!”

“How can I break your goddamn wrist when I’m not even _moving_!”

“Let me go anyway, you’re hurting me!”

“And you fucking threw yourself at me with a fucking knife, what did you… _Fine_. Calm the fuck down and I’ll consider it.” Shizuo eventually capitulates to him, and letting out a last frustrated groan, Izaya stops moving. He scowls occasionally at the spot where Shizuo’s hand circles his wrist, and even if the grip feels strangely light around his skin, Izaya knows it’s also powerful enough to pulverize bones and rip apart flesh.

From up close, the smell of cigarette makes him wrinkle his nose in spite Shizuo’s stupid efforts to minimize the inconvenience. From up close, Izaya can see the other man’s eyes hold a tint of gold and of weariness. Anger and violence might be gone but they’ve left their mark on his features, in the form of lines and shadows. A feeling of irritation tugs at Izaya’s mouth and he can’t bear the silence any longer, so he asks: “Why are you like this?”

Shizuo’s eyes flick over him as if he’s searching for something. “Like what?”

“Annoyingly, disgustingly _peaceful_.” Izaya spits with all the disdain he can muster, frowning like the sound of the word itself tastes sour on his lips, but Shizuo only raises an amused eyebrow at him.

“I’ve grown up.” he replies. “You should try it sometimes.”

The sun has already disappeared by the time Shizuo’s hand loosens and eventually releases Izaya, who holds his wrist to his chest and rubs it while looking accusingly at the other man. Shizuo is not buying it. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but Izaya cuts him off.

“I should get going. I don’t have that much time to waste on you. My, Shizu-chan can be so _greedy_! My world doesn’t revolve around you, you know?” he complains loudly, a sharp grin cutting across his face, before stretching his arms and turning on his heels. Some part of him wants to dive into the night and never come back. There are lies dipped in truth and truths covered in lies. He doesn’t know what secrets will be exposed when the old, worn out varnish cracks.

If it cracks.

“Whatever you say. See you around, Izaya.” Shizuo speaks to the darkness. There’s a wry smile hidden somewhere in his voice.


	2. Evening Ritual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "“You’re such a fool, Shizu-chan.” he speaks under his breath, low-pitched and with a strange tremor of fondness tangled in his ominous tone. “Such a god-forsaken, awful fool. You should’ve killed me when you still had the chance.”  
> It’s the second time he tells him that tonight and Shizuo shudders, unwelcome shivers blossoming along his spine."  
> — Shizuo is a hypocrite and for all he knows, Izaya will surely be the end of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's get inside Shizuo's head for a bit! I think I'll keep jumping between the two POV from one chapter to another, because both characters are sooo fun to mess around with ~.
> 
> Thanks for the comments I'm too flustered and awkward to properly answer to, and for the kudos as well! Have a nice read =).
> 
> ♥

Izaya has become his own, private evening ritual and if the thought itself is strange, the reality is even more confusing. Almost every night now, the man he once wanted dead walks by his side, from his workplace to a little way ahead of his apartment complex. Izaya always leaves him there, as if Shizuo could ever believe him to be so prude. Hell, he probably already knows the front door code.

If not for the constant insults and banter, it’s oddly pleasant and Shizuo gets used to it.

Sometimes, he would purposefully take the long way around and maybe lead them somewhere different, because even a man like Izaya eventually runs out of things to say and Shizuo enjoys the silence. There’s more to learn about Izaya when he doesn’t speak, as he finds out. From all the sighs, whines and nervous mannerism that usually ensue, it’s obvious that he dislikes the quiet but Shizuo couldn’t care less. They watch the sunset or the ballet of car lights or the slow movement of the clouds together, standing at a reasonable distance from one another.

Each day, it seems that distance is getting smaller – imperceptibly.

In these moments, Shizuo can’t help but notice Izaya doesn’t seem to have aged at all and it makes him wonder if he’s started to bathe in the blood of virgin schoolboys or something, but it also nearly makes him feel self-conscious. This city, their reckless youth, his strength – they all took a toll on him. It’s visible on the wrinkles that run over his face, on his loneliness, on the way he walks with slumped shoulders and hisses when he takes the stairs – though he should really blame the smoking for that last part.

Throughout the years, he has managed to break most of his old bad habits. Most, but not all. The scent of cold tobacco still clings to his fingers and his lungs are still filled with black, heavy smoke. The only difference is that now, nicotine _is_ enough to actually calm him down on the rare occasions where his newly found self-control threatens to escape him.

Other times, Shizuo can’t help wondering about all the things that could have been. He’s not the kind of man to feed off regrets or to bask in nostalgia, but he has to occupy his mind during their long silences and the proximity of Izaya isn’t helping. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of dark hair and smooth skin, of crimson irises and black fabric, of sharp bones and unforgiving lips. Shizuo is aware that they don’t have much in common, and he can’t quite explain how Izaya’s presence seems to fit into his universe, how it feels like there’s somehow always been a place for him.

It takes roughly a month before Izaya starts filling the silence with new, intimate questions and Shizuo asks himself if he’s finally come to terms with the fact that they weren’t what and who they used to be.

“Did you really mean it when you said you’d have had a normal life without me?” he says one day, as they’re sitting on the roof of a building under construction and dusk is drowning his face in all kinds of familiar shadows.

Shizuo hums and plays with the cigarette hanging between his fingers. “That’s what I thought, yes. But I don’t think I would’ve wanted it anyway. I was too stupid, back then – _don’t even start, Izaya_. I wouldn’t have been able to appreciate it.”

“You should’ve killed me. You should’ve made me understand.”

“No, that’s insane.” Shizuo chuckles lightly, watching as Izaya curls up to shelter himself from the brisk air, knees tucked into his chest. “Even now, while I have made it pretty clear I didn’t want you around anymore… I can’t seem to find a way to properly get rid of you.”

He looks down at the never-ending traffic and puts the cigarette between his lips. “No one else lets you bother them like I do, right?” he adds, and under the half-hearted teasing, there’s a tint of sadness, of gut-wrenching guilt when the words leave his bitter mouth. Izaya’s cheeks puff out as he tries to contain a scornful snort and then fails, tipped over by the force of his laughter. It resonates in the empty building, childlike and dissonant, hurting in all the right places.

“Aah, Shizu-chan is so funny! After all these years, you still think you’re special to me! I figure even a thing as low as _hatred_ is still too much for your primitive brain to grasp.”

“Cut the crap.” Shizuo growls through gritted teeth, feeling an all too familiar tension building up in the middle of his back and receding when he takes an urgent drag that burns half of his cigarette. “There’s not so many sensible reasons for you to be here, you know?”

“Since when are any of my reasons _sensible_?” Izaya inquires with a fake, innocent smile and Shizuo shrugs, looking away from the conspicuous vanity that lightens his face. From the intensity and the shrewdness of his bloodstone eyes. The idea of pushing him off the edge of the unfinished roof is growing more appealing by the minute, but then he’d be even more lonely than he already is.

“You’re still human.” he offers, damnation and salvation cut from the same cloth – a blow as much as a caress. He’s such a coward, he can’t even find the strength to face Izaya. He hears the discreet rustling of clothes beside him, and then Izaya is standing on the edge of the terrace, the tip of his shoes hovering dangerously above the void. He raises his arms like he wants to embrace the sky, the city and the whole world. All visible light seems to coil and disappears in the depth of his irises.

“You’re such a fool, Shizu-chan.” he speaks under his breath, low-pitched and with a strange tremor of fondness tangled in his ominous tone. “Such a god-forsaken, awful fool. You should’ve killed me when you still had the chance.”

It’s the second time he tells him that tonight and Shizuo shudders, unwelcome shivers blossoming along his spine. He’s not sure of the implications that these words hold, of the undisclosed threat in them. Taking in the unlikely sight of Izaya standing above the city and smiling like a maniac, his eyes trailing along the slender frame quivering in the night breeze, Shizuo is hit with the painful realization that he finds it _beautiful_.

A twisted, tragic kind of beautiful.

“I’m going home, it’s too cold out here.” Izaya whispers, stumbling back to safety, cloaking himself tighter in his pitiful, fur-trimmed coat. Is it the same one that he would always be wearing, back then? Shizuo tries his best to bury a sudden burst of sympathy. He looks so vulnerable, like that. It’s almost easy to forget that he once was the enemy.

“Do you want me to come with you?” The words are out too fast, and he can’t take them back. Izaya seems to have a line ready for every situation that could ever cross Shizuo’s mind though.

“If I had wanted a dog, I would have got one smaller and more obedient than Shizu-chan.”

And just like that, he’s Orihara Izaya once again – knife-edged smirk, taunting eyes and bouncing footsteps. He brushes past Shizuo, flashing him a pointy gaze over his shoulder. 

“I was just asking.” Shizuo tries to justify himself, to act like none of it matters but he’s an open book. His behaviour gets him a tilted head and a treacherous, seductive flutter of dark lashes – followed by more wickedness, and he feels like he’s deserved it somehow.

“I don’t need _you_.”

“ _Fine_. Then leave already.”

+

The memory of Izaya now stands above his dreams like he stood above the city and everything else that night – foreboding and powerful, yet so insufferably broken and frail. A walking, breathing paradox that keeps messing with his brain, even after all these years. A mystery that should remain forever unsolved but in which he still finds himself trapped. Something while he’s asleep tells him that it’s too late to find a way out. The threads are so tight around him that they slit his skin when he tries to move, and each bead of blood is but a drop in the red ocean of a demon’s eyes.

Maybe Izaya is right. Maybe he should have killed him when he had the chance. Because now, well – he can’t.

Shizuo fills the empty space of his apartment with blinding smoke and distorted memories of what never was. The truth is, he has made himself so lonely by breaking off all ties with his past, believing this was the only way to finally get better, that he clings desperately to the last thing that remains. The only thing he could never let go of, because he’s such a coward and a hypocrite – Vorona told him so, on the day he wished her a good life and thanked her for _everything_. What a lame way to say goodbye.

It was so long ago, yet nothing has happened since then that could have contradicted her. He’s a hypocrite because he claims that he has changed, yet it’s the world that has changed around him. He’s a coward because he never found the courage to properly confront Izaya and find the closure he thought he wanted. Unlike the rest of the world, Izaya is obviously stuck in his own frozen piece of time and Shizuo should have known better than to trust that little bastard to ever grow tired of him or to do anything, even accidentally, that would go his way.

He cracks a window open and sits on the edge of his bed, letting the wind sweep the tobacco haze until he can make out the contours of his apartment again. He didn’t go to work, today. He vaguely wonders if Izaya is waiting for him and the clarity with which he can picture his sharp face and his slender frame surrounded by shadows sickens him. He’s probably going to take it out on strangers when he finds out about Shizuo not being there, but Shizuo has the intuition people tend to see him as nothing more than a pathetic creep, these days.

He washes his head in the sink, and when he looks at himself in the mirror, he thinks about changing back to his natural hair colour.

+

“Why don’t you hang out with your friends, anyway?” is the question that just nearly makes him lose his temper.

They’re on the overpass where he used to meet with Celty and talk about their troubles, watching the trains come and go under the incendiary sunset. There is an old carcass abandoned on the left side of the tracks, covered in purple, blue and yellow graffities, rust and weed bursting out through broken windows. Izaya is leaning way too far over the railing, forever cheating death and smiling like a lunatic for a reason Shizuo is perfectly glad to ignore.

_Because I don’t have any friends anymore, and you know it. I’ve lost them all because while everybody started going their own way, I realized nobody cared enough to wait for you and I thought it was sad. So, I threw away my only chance of moving on. Because whatever you say, even if we’re not humans like the rest of them, we don’t deserve to be miserable and lonely like that._

Shizuo doesn’t say any of this out loud, though. His hands twist around the metal on which they were resting so peacefully mere seconds ago, digging into it with inhuman force, and he chants to himself that he needs to calm down, that he’s able to keep it together, that he’s definitely not going to fail now. A small group of teenagers pass them by, laughing carelessly, and they don’t spare them a single glance because, of course, they don’t know who they are. Breathing loudly through his nose, Shizuo takes his cigarette pack out of his pocket with trembling fingers and barely manages to put one between his teeth.

“None of your business. And you know, I could ask you the same.” he grates, closing his eyes so tightly that it hurts, and he can’t control the tell-tale twitch of one eyebrow as he fumbles with his lighter.

“Well, my life is certainly none of your business.” Izaya sighs like he’s tired of repeating himself. He shifts position so that his back is to the railing and smiles at Shizuo with all the annoying fake candour he’s capable of, tilting his head. “I guess you realized a creature like yourself just wasn’t meant to be part of their world. Why, I must say, this kind of foresight would be quite unexpected, coming from Shizu-chan.” he muses, derision and honesty caught up in such an intricate tangle that it’s impossible to know what his true point is.

Shizuo decides it’s best to let it slide. He doesn’t have the strength to have this conversation with Izaya – not yet, anyway. He can already feel the signs of a growing headache, just from the sheer effort of containing his anger. In the back of his mind, he still hears the teenagers giggling and he doesn’t know how he should feel about it. Every day seems to bring in its wake one more proof that he’s becoming a stranger in this city. He should be glad, because it means that he has succeeded. He doesn’t have to carry around the weight of his reputation anymore. But honestly, it is a very unnerving feeling.

“Are you happy, now?” he eventually asks, and the question comes out with more aggressivity than he truly intended. Izaya shifts a brief look in his direction, and there’s a question in his eye – genuine curiosity. Shizuo elaborates: “You got what you wanted after all. It’s just you and me, in your fucking perfect little universe.”

“Oh, my, Shizu-chan really thinks he understands me so well that he is capable of knowing my deepest desires…” Izaya’s eyes widen in a fancy show of disbelief and then, the mask is gone. He squints, his dark lashes a barrier too thin to hold back the dangerous glow of his gaze as it meets Shizuo’s. “How _arrogant_ and _wrong_.”

Shizuo shrugs softly. He refuses to look away, no matter how hard the need for violence is pulling at him, set ablaze by the flames in Izaya’s dark irises. They should stop meeting in places like this, where one of them could fall. It’s bound to end badly. “Pretend all you want. It’s been too long; I’m not buying it anymore.”

“I don’t like your tone.” Izaya’s hands disappear in his pockets like he’s contemplating the idea of cutting his way out of their argument.

“And I really wanna punch your goddamn face, but who fucking cares anymore?” Shizuo all but roars, and he steps on his cigarette butt with just a bit more energy than necessary. For a couple of minutes, they stare at each other, a trail of electricity running between them even from a distance. Izaya is the first to back off, turning around and letting his gaze drop to the railway again, and then there’s only silence. Blissful, hopeless silence.

“Let’s just say you’re not so bad when you keep your big, vulgar mouth shut. So, stop talking already. I’m watching the trains and you’re ruining my fun.” he hisses at last, and Izaya’s rare admissions are always that way – ruined by his undying hostility.

Shizuo is more than happy to oblige, though. He leans over the railing next to the other man, not too close, but he can still pick up on his strained breathing. As the sun is slowly setting, casting ever growing shadows, the tall buildings waste no time covering the streets in their own night, proving to the world that this city belongs to them and is ruled by them. The weather is getting colder. Shizuo contemplates the fact that soon, when winter comes, they won’t be able to properly enjoy this evening ritual together anymore. He’s going to need an alternative.

“Come by for coffee, some day.” he suggests, but it’s more a statement than an actual question. Obviously, Izaya snorts and quickly dismisses the idea.

“You don’t like coffee, and I don’t like you.” he mocks, trying to avoid Shizuo’s unimpressed look that’s running over his face.

“Sunday morning. Oh, and you don’t have to bring a knife, Izaya. I have plenty at home.”

Izaya openly _sneers_.


	3. Physics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, did you want to talk about something in particular, or was your sole purpose torturing me with this thing you call coffee? You’re mistaken, by the way. This, at best, is liquid poison. I knew Shizu-chan was still trying to kill me!”  
> — Shizuo knew this was a mistake. But who is he to go against the laws of physics?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyy, I'm back!  
> This chapter was a bit difficult to organize, but I think I'm ok with the result. 
> 
> Get ready, things will get more heated very shortly (Izaya's got it coming though). 
> 
> Alright, I'm out! 
> 
> ♥

_< < Will be there at 9. >>_

_< < Try 10. It’s Sunday ffs. >>_

+

Izaya is there at nine, but Shizuo half expected it and though he’s still drying his hair when he hears a knock on the door, he’s already dressed and properly awake. He did most of the cleaning the evening before and has even managed to squeeze in some time for meditation, this morning – which he’s sure is absolutely mandatory before doing something as stupid as receiving Izaya in his own apartment.

_He did know the code, that bastard._

He also did know his address and his phone number, but those things can’t really faze him anymore, and he’s better off not thinking about it. He opens the door and is met with Izaya’s complacent face and languid eyes, impossibly looking down on him. The sight has Shizuo instantly regretting his invitation. The situation is entirely too surreal, so much that neither of them dares to move, and they do little more than gauging each other for what feels like hours, wicked smile against accusing stare, like they’re still assuming one of them will certainly lunge and start a fight.

“Good morning, Shizu-chan!” Izaya eventually chirps, tilting his head to the side before leaning over to take off his shoes.

As he brushes past him with an ostentatious grin, there’s a subtle whiff of perfume in his trail, familiar and startling at the same time, and Shizuo’s eyes widen briefly. He feels it again, then – this heavy, overwhelming weight that makes his stomach sink. Guilt, he figures, but doesn’t understand why it’s even here. He shouldn’t be that surprised, however. Izaya probably took a shower before going out. It’s a perfectly normal behaviour.

“Hey.” is the only sound that leaves his mouth.

And without another word, he closes the door and goes to make coffee right away, keeping an eye on Izaya as the man just stands in the middle of the room. He doesn’t comment, but Shizuo can see the silent judgment in his eyes and, by the way his jaws tighten, he can tell he’s trying hard to act like a decent guest. Shizuo’s place is modest, sure. There’s nothing more than what is necessary, it’s nice and clean, but there’s a strange atmosphere hanging in the air. Even with all the light flowing through the windows, the apartment feels dark and stagnant, like nobody has lived here for years.

If Izaya notices how Shizuo is fumbling with the coffee pot, he doesn’t offer any help, nor does he make a jab about it. When he’s done with his stationary exploration of Shizuo’s flat, or maybe more accurately, making a list of everything he could later use as a weapon, he flops down on the couch with a loud sigh, removes his coat and proceeds to scroll down his phone with a blatant lack of interest.

Shizuo is awake at nine on a Sunday morning, pouring coffee in a mug while Izaya is sitting on his couch like this is all perfectly natural, and the small, annoyed whines that occasionally escape him keep distracting him. This is beyond belief. He catches his confused reflection in the aluminium sink, and he can’t help but smile. It’s pleasant anyway, being able to feel somebody else’s presence.

“I don’t know how you like it, so I made it strong.” he declares, putting the mug down on the table for Izaya. Their eyes meet, and when they do, Shizuo thinks it doesn’t feel very different from all the punches they used to throw at each other. His poor choice of words costs him a thin, raised eyebrow and a smirk he wishes he could unsee. He acts as though he’s totally unaware of the double meaning, sitting on the floor with only a glass of water in front of him.

“Strong is fine.” Izaya sneers after setting his phone aside, and his eyes are still full of mischievous arrogance when he grabs the cup and reluctantly smells it. He doesn’t even try to hide the look of sheer horror on his face. “ _Thank you_. I guess.”

Shizuo shrugs it off. He never drinks coffee, and he’s certain that whatever he poured in that mug is going to taste awful. The idea of messing with Izaya is always too tempting to be ignored. The man crosses his legs and settles back into the couch, and with all his usual, graceful nonchalance, Shizuo is unable to say if these circumstances are disturbing him to any extent. 

“So, did you want to talk about something in particular, or was your sole purpose torturing me with this _thing_ you call coffee? You’re mistaken, by the way. This, at best, is liquid poison. I knew Shizu-chan was still trying to kill me!”

Izaya seems to be delighted by this thought, swaying left and right, and there’s a warm laugh tangled in his cheerful voice. Shizuo’s cheek start to burn, both from embarrassment and irritation. “Shut up. At least, I tried.” he grunts. “I was wondering what you were up to, these days. You seem to have a shit-ton of free time on your hands.”

“Oh, well. I don’t think Shizu-chan would approve the nature of my work, and even less want to know about it.” Izaya replies with a dismissive grin as he gets up, cup in hand, and waltzes to the kitchen where he empties the content in the sink in one large, dramatic motion. Shizuo can’t be bothered to care. There’s something about seeing Izaya rummaging through his kitchen to make himself actual coffee that purely transfixes him. He remembers there are knives in the drawers but forgets it straight after.

Izaya leans his back against the counter, eyeing him suspiciously, and gestures towards his head. “What the hell is going on with your hair?”

Shizuo absently runs his fingers through a few strands and blinks, dumbfounded. “Uh? Oh, yeah, that. I’m going back to my natural colour.” He expects a mean remark about how it makes him look even dumber than usual – like he’s emptied a jar of this chocolate and vanilla custard he enjoys so much on top of his head. He surely wasn’t expecting Izaya to cringe and ask “Why?” in such an outraged tone.

“Because I want to, what the fuck do you care?” He rolls his eyes and scurries to one of the windows, lighting a cigarette before he breaks something. Izaya stares strangely as Shizuo blows out smoke in a somewhat aggressive fashion. How he hates it when people pay attention to his appearance. “Are you really gonna obsess over my fucking hair, now?”

“I just don’t understand.” Shizuo glares at the little shit, who avoids his gaze and shifts it to the coffee pot instead. “It always starts with the insignificant things.” he goes on, as though he’s wondering aloud. “A new haircut, a new pair of shoes, a new hobby. You know.”

Shizuo’s breath catches in his throat and he feels cold in his veins. This – this might be the only time in too many years that Izaya is being genuine. His honesty has a bitterness he’s well acquainted with, treacherous edges prodding at what little remains of hope. It’s sadness, he decides. It’s the incomprehension of a child when they see their parents leaving for work and fear that they won’t be coming back. It’s the frightful knowledge that no matter how hard you struggle to keep things under control, they always manage to escape you in the end. You’re never given the choice. Shizuo exhales into the morning haze, long curls of smoke fading against blue sky and dirty concrete.

“Ah… Don’t worry about it, I’m not going anywhere. I can’t change.”

Silence stretches out between the two of them. Shizuo doesn’t need to turn around to see the thoughtful, pained look on Izaya’s face. He leaves him all the privacy he needs before his mask is on again, before his tone gets insulting again. It’s barely the matter of a minute.

“My. That was a very edgy and stupid thing to say, even for Shizu-chan.” comes the inevitable taunt. The coffee maker beeps, preventing any further insult, and Shizuo hears Izaya going through the cupboards in search of a new cup. He’s certainly not going to help him with that.

“That nickname’s getting old.” Shizuo mutters, softly tapping on the cigarette to make the ash fall, and then he shifts to face Izaya, one arm hanging out the window, back pressed against the wall.

He starts counting the years in his head. He stopped calling him _Izaya-kun_ the moment he realized he couldn’t spend the rest of his life trying to put an end to his abuses, which was also the moment he began running away from him instead of falling into his traps and risking to do something he would definitely regret. That was five years ago. _Shizu-chan_ kept sticking, no matter what. As he lets his gaze slide down the shape of Izaya’s weary face, he thinks he can understand why, even if it has stopped making sense a while ago. He’s nearly thirty, after all.

“ _You’re_ getting old.” Izaya snaps back, childlike, quite lamely, and for once it lacks creativity. Shizuo snorts, holding back a smile. Yes, he is perfectly aware of the fact that time goes on, whether he’s ready or not doesn’t matter.

“And you keep acting like you aren’t.” It’s a reproach as much as a question. What is so important in Izaya’s past that he’s this much reluctant to let go of? His youth was not brighter than most of them, and the dark circles around his almond eyes betray it’s certainly not better than his present. Izaya seems to find the conversation charming, for some obscure reason – or maybe he’s just enjoying the taste of proper coffee at last.

“Because I’m not.” Izaya chirps, and he’s impossibly gleaming. “I am not.” he repeats. “Can’t you tell?”

With deliberate restraint, Izaya leaves his cup on the counter and slides towards him. Shizuo can only watch him, because it feels like he’s being told to. Watch how deadly Izaya moves, light and steady on his feet, darkness tightly wrapped around his thin legs and thinner waist. He invades his personal space, almost leaning all the length of his scrawny body on Shizuo, but not close enough to make contact. Shizuo backs up against the wall and watches him – the elegant angles of his face, the shadows nested under his jutting collarbone, the narrow lines of his brows and the defined, hateful curve of his lips.

Suddenly, Shizuo is twenty again and he’s running through the streets of Ikebukuro, fire in his lungs, fire in his blood.

“Can’t you _see_?” Izaya’s breath is tingling his neck, and it’s a wonder how the softest things about that man still hurt more than flames, thunder and blades. Before he can think twice about it, his hand goes up to try and catch his chin, but Izaya evades him with an ease born from a lifetime of running away from him, lips curled up in an impish smile and eyelashes fluttering ever so lazily.

“Now, what’s on your mind, Shizuo…” he mocks him, the syllables of his full name distinct on his tongue, and he licks his lips as though he wants to properly taste the sound of them. Shizuo wishes he could bash his head in but then again, who doesn’t?

Leaving him frozen in place, Izaya carelessly flops on the couch again, throwing his legs up against the cushions and his head back so that he’s looking at Shizuo, upside down. He’s not sure if this is a new level of taunting, if he is just being a pain in the ass, or if _Orihara Izaya_ is actually attempting to seduce him. Somehow, it makes sense that’s it’s so hard to tell these things apart.

“Hey, get your stinky feet off my couch.”

“You’re so territorial.” Izaya ignores him, too busy stretching out his arms, and Shizuo’s eyes flicker over the small patch of white skin exposed. In all the twisted games Izaya ever came up with, he always accepted to play his part so willingly – why should this be any different? And though he knows whether he wins or loses is always entirely up to Izaya to decide, he finds that he doesn’t give a shit about it anymore.

“Is this all you wanted to ask me, by the way? _How’s work?_ I guess you really did get boring, after all.” Izaya sighs, shifting back to a standing position. With one finger, he distractedly traces the rim of Shizuo’s forgotten glass. “My turn now! What do you do to your therapists? You’ve been to see three different ones over the course of the last five months.” 

With caution, Shizuo goes around the couch to stub out his cigarette in the ashtray. “I thought you were done stalking me.” he wonders aloud. Izaya’s face contorts into a look of aversion.

“Rude. I don’t _stalk_ Shizu-chan. I’m an informant, I know things – including things I find tedious.” he whines, but Shizuo cuts him off.

“Suit yourself. As a matter of fact, I change before they say something stupid and piss me off.”

And that’s all there is to it. He never liked Izaya sticking his nose in his personal business, but he knows by now that it can’t be helped, and the idea that the man is still obsessing over his every move, as repulsing as it might be, oddly feels like a relief. 

“Is that so? That’s interesting. Does it mean you will see me out before I get on your nerves?” Izaya asks with a nasty smile. Shizuo purses his lips, unconvinced, and pretends to think about it for a while.

“You got on my nerves the moment I opened the door.” he states, crossing his arms and shrugging.

“And you haven’t broken anything yet? I must say, I am truthfully impressed.”

“You drank shitty coffee and made a dumb face. Makes up for it, I suppose.”

“How adorable! Shizu-chan has been scheming to humiliate me! But, what if I were to say remarkably _mean_ things? Would you start by breaking the table, smashing your glass against the wall, or would you directly defenestrate me?”

“You want to find out? You’re fucking insane.”

“But you’re so boring! I don’t even know if you still possess that monstrous strength of yours! What am I to do if I can’t properly hate my dear beast anymore?” Izaya is up again, putting on his coat as he skips towards Shizuo. His malevolent irises are an open window to the past, to regrets and countless mistakes. They lure and cheat and curse everything and everyone foolish enough to wander near them.

Izaya is dangerous for him. It’s so easy to see, so achingly obvious to realize when he’s like this – making a scene, eyes filled with blood and night, shrill voice and infuriating, fake smile. Izaya’s words are flying around the room like shards of something sharper than the edge of a knife, but he can’t understand any of it. His ears are filled with the clear, loud noise of impending destruction.

As much as Shizuo wishes it to be different, he has no choice but to admit they’ve never been good at talking with each other. Words have always been simple foreplay, a prequel to violence. The chase was the only thing that ever mattered to them – that addicting, irreplaceable rush of blood was what they only ever craved for. He can’t trick himself into believing that all of this is behind him, that he’s become better than that.

Izaya is the spark lighting a fuse, the deafening sound of a trigger being pulled.

Shizuo is the chaos and disaster that invariably ensue.

 _It’s physics_ , he tells himself as he hears glass, wood and plaster shatter under his fist. _You can’t change the fucking laws of physics._

“Was that a gift from Vorona? Ah, what a shame. Not only did you break your relationship, but now you’re even destroying its remnants…”

“You should probably leave.” he’s just barely able to utter, voice nothing but a low roar, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t want this.

“And you should change therapist.” In a twirl of shadows, laughter and ruin, Izaya darts out of his appartment. Shizuo considers running after him, but that might be the exact thing Izaya expected of him, the only reason he came here in the first place. He can’t bear the thought of it.


	4. Pressure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "His chest is going to burst, is about to finally expose what cursed abomination lies in place of his heart. And when it does, whatever disease, whatever rot has been growing underneath his fragile flesh will outgrow the light.   
> He will need to come up with new ways to die." — It doesn't matter if Shizuo's not willing to fight him anymore. Izaya has other means of getting under his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this took me ages because I wrote too many pages of smut (which was supposed to be "EVENTUAL", so I guess I'm gonna go change the tags) and it's the second time I'm doing it and I wanted to try again so here we are. I’m sorry. (Am I?)
> 
> Anyway, there you go. Next chapter will be Shizuo’s POV again and will give more insight about what the fuck just happened and how they ended up in this situation. It will also feature a "Post-Sex Talk" because they’re both mature adults. (Who am I kidding, of course they’re not, but I’m trying to have a happy end here!)
> 
> Kudos to everyone leaving kudos! 
> 
> As always, I hope you have a good time and I'll see you next time ♥.

There’s a firm grip tugging at his shirt that effortlessly lifts him up from the couch and sends him crashing against the wall at the far end of the room, knocking the air out of his lungs. It should be painful, but adrenaline has him anaesthetized, and there’s only excitement in his chest when Shizuo – his shadow, heat and power – comes close enough to block any way out. Izaya’s crimson eyes are mirthfully sparkling as Shizuo’s hands press down on his shoulders, hard enough to pin him there. He can barely suppress a shiver of anticipation. He feels high on relief, so much that his limbs don’t have the strength to try and resist, and his whole body remains unusually docile and pliable.

He can’t remember how the situation slipped out of control, although he’s spent the last month or so meticulously setting the scene – showing up uninvited at some ungodly hour and bailing on Shizuo whenever they did agree on a proper rendezvous, doing every single thing in his power to piss him off and finally make him snap.

He knew Shizuo hadn’t changed. He didn’t care for the way things would play out – he only wanted to prove his point. He wanted a reaction. Anything. He knew Shizuo hadn’t changed.

He can see it now, buried deep under the surface of brown irises, badly hidden in widened pupils. Izaya can’t quite name it and he doesn’t want to. He likes this uncertainty, the delightful threat that comes with his ignorance. He likes the unlimited emotions that swirl and explode and continually change – more human than most, more human than all. He wants the storm to take him. For so many years, he’s been hoping to be hit with all the full, pure violence of another heart – because he’s shut out his own, as it was too chaotic and too demanding, but it never stopped hurling at him.

With a soft, twisted smile, he leans in and lets his mouth brush over Shizuo’s cheek. “It’s alright. It’s only me. You can let it all go,” he purrs and pleads at the same time, but the other man is frowning, hesitation and fear plain on his tense face. The pressure of his hands lightens as he starts to withdraw.

“Izaya, if this is another one of your fucking games, I don’t want t –“ Izaya muffles the end of the sentence beneath his palm. “Shut up.” He throws his free arm around Shizuo’s neck, ruthless nails reminiscent of a knife’s edge digging into smooth skin to drag him closer.

“Shut your stupid mouth. You’re not gonna make me wait any longer, Shizuo,” he warns him, and he doesn’t care if this is not to Shizuo’s liking. Darkness, lust and anger have merged into a dangerous whirl in his demanding stare. His lips are heavy with the weight of sheer, hopeless need as they part once more, words stumbling out in one tight breath. “What more do you want me to do, for you to finally _fuck_ me?”

It’s a lie, of course, but it’s harmless as long as neither of them pauses to question it. Shizuo hisses and bites down on Izaya’s hand, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make him flinch. He grabs him again and unceremoniously tosses his body back onto the couch. Izaya giggles like a maniac, propping himself up on his elbows to have a better view of Shizuo, slowly making his way towards him, to watch him as he ruffles his hair and his other hand goes to undo the buttons of his shirt, one by one, eyes fixed on the slender silhouette of Izaya with a look of predation that perfectly suits his beastlike aura.

“Look more vulnerable. Stay with me,” he states, and his husky tone has Izaya shaking in utter agony. He wants to fight back, to argue and hurt and run away – wants to surrender, to close his eyes and let himself be taken over. The indecisiveness paralyzes him as much as it turns him on. Shizuo puts one knee on each side of Izaya’s thighs and forces him back down with the combined forces of one hand splayed on his chest and of blazing eyes looming over him. “Keep being the crazy, troublesome, whiny bitch that you are.” Izaya reaches to touch him, to slide the white shirt over and off Shizuo’s shoulders, but quick fingers clasp around his wrists and yank his arms up above his head, restraining him. “Tell me how you’re never gonna die. Don’t ever, ever change.”

Izaya has barely enough courage to meet the other’s fierce, hard gaze and not to look away. Long, black lashes lecherously lower over his blood-red irises, casting shadows all over his pale skin, and he can’t do much more than squirm in expectation. “Why, you’re so _greedy_ …” he dares to taunt, one last time, even as his own ability to breath is threatening to abandon him and Shizuo’s palm is going down his left side, drawing the curve of his arching back.

“Yeah,” the other man chuckles, and then he’s kissing him. Izaya’s eyes go wide under the shock of their mouths colliding, before squeezing shut and shrouding him in comforting darkness. For a minute, he might have forgotten his own name. Shizuo’s lips are sucking the life out of him and he’s already nothing more than a pathetic mess of need and misery. His long fingers pull and tug at thick, brown locks as his muted moans make his entire body tremble.

The whole world topples over into unknown depths. Reality crumbles and falls apart around them.

Izaya can’t think straight anymore. Shizuo keeps devouring him, hands desperately groping and feeling and crushing his delicate frame, from his brittle shoulders to his heaving ribcage. He slides his slim legs around the other man’s waist, forcing him closer, effectively pinning himself under the unbearable weight of Shizuo’s desire. His chest is going to burst, is about to finally expose what cursed abomination lies in place of his heart. And when it does, whatever disease, whatever rot has been growing underneath his fragile flesh will outgrow the light.

He will need to come up with new ways to die.

But for now, Shizuo is vehemently pushing him off the couch and onto his knees, while he sits up, fumbling to get his zipper down. Izaya’s face disappears between his legs, with much more excitation than he’d be willing to admit. He doesn’t need to be told what to do or how to do it. He wouldn’t care anyway. He knows there is something about his tongue and his lips that always makes Shizuo go insane, no matter what he uses them for – no matter if it’s to hurt, to tease or to lie. This won’t be the exception. With little hesitation or concern, he takes Shizuo’s cock in his mouth, sucking and licking and tasting. It should feel degrading but somehow, the situation gives him an exciting, totally new sense of control and he revels in it, already wanting to push the limits.

He’s the only one who can decide when to make it pleasurable and when to make it painful. It’s no surprise that Izaya tends to lie somewhere in the middle, infuriatingly ambivalent and unpredictable – threatening teeth and voluptuous tongue. He’s sure Shizuo wouldn’t have him any other way.

Shizuo’s pants and grunts are running down onto him, dripping heavy and syrupy like oil. It’s suffocating. Izaya can feel flames lapping at his cheeks, his neck already strained by the brutal and reckless rhythm of his head going up and down. He opens his eyes out of curiosity and seeing Shizuo from this angle dramatically increases the rate of his heartbeat, nearly makes him nauseous. Why should he be the one to feel this way? He’s at Shizuo’s feet like a believer in prayer at some antic shrine, worshipping the monster with such fervour that it will surely deny his soul any kind of eternal peace. But he can’t tear his gaze away from the man above him. He’s not praying, though.

He’s summoning the beast.

Shizuo’s shirt is open, allowing Izaya to see how his chest is heaving and his stomach tensing. His contorted face as well as his hands holding on to the cushions with knuckles gone white betray just how much he’s trying to behave himself. Izaya wants nothing more than to get their eyes to meet. He needs to know what will be kindled in Shizuo’s irises when he finally lays eyes on him – on Izaya kneeling, on Izaya’s mouth on him, with his cheeks hollowed and his face stripped of its usual arrogance. He wants him to lose control just as badly as he’s afraid of this eventuality. With a demanding groan, Izaya reaches to tug at one of Shizuo’s sleeve, guiding him until he feels fingers gripping a fistful of hair, and the pleasured sound that escapes him vibrate all around Shizuo’s length.

_That’s it, fall with me. It’s been so lonely down there._

“Stop,” Shizuo growls and Izaya gives one last, playful lick before turning his face to him, questioning yet visibly smug. He’s being hoisted up and suddenly finds himself sitting in Shizuo’s lap. The man looks at him as though he’s one of the seven wonders, and that makes him uncomfortable, so he shifts and straddles him, bending his back, hands loosely tied around his neck. Shizuo’s hands are almost large enough to completely circle his waist, and although that should pass for an insignificant detail, Izaya thinks he could get off on it.

His black shirt easily goes off. He undoes his belt, blowing hot air along the familiar line of Shizuo’s neck, resting one hand against the searing skin of his chest. “What is it, Shizuo? Cat got your tongue?” he jokes, looking down at him through half-lidded eyes as he sends the belt flying across the room with his typical sense of drama. Shizuo doesn’t seem to know what he’s doing here – his only remaining purpose in life appears to be to catch Izaya’s lips again. Izaya complies and briefly kisses him before evading him, because it’s entertaining and so simple to get him riled up. Shizuo’s bruising fingers dig harder into his skin, keeping him steady.

“I wanna hear you. You’re always so loud, you never shut up. I wanna hear you,” Shizuo barely manages to speak, strands of brown hair sticking to his sweaty forehead as he stares at him with wide, craving eyes. Izaya giggles and sways his hips in an attempt to hide just how much Shizuo’s rough voice is pushing him further and further over the edge of reason.

“How _naughty_ , Shizuo…” he pouts, sliding one seductive finger under Shizuo’s chin to tilt it up, to admire the glimmer in his crazed, honey irises for a bit longer. “But what will the neighbours say?”

“Don’t care. I’ll kill them when I’m done fucking your brains out.”

“Oh,” is all Izaya has time to speak before he’s being flipped over and pushed up against the back of the couch. It’s certainly not the best choice of location for what is about to happen, but neither of them finds it necessary to point it out. Izaya’s demented laugh feels like glass in his throat as he lets Shizuo carelessly remove his trousers and shorts, and he wiggles his backside for good measure. He thinks he heard Shizuo chuckle and mumble something along the lines of _“I’m so tired of your shit.”_ – but he can’t say for sure, because the world around him is nothing but a dark, shifting blur.

He’s too aware of Shizuo’s warmth behind him and it’s making him blind. He’s clawing at the coarse fabric beneath his palms, overwhelmed by the feeling of Shizuo surrounding him, of what will come. Every inch of his body comes alive, yet he never felt so close to dying.

“Shizuo, I swear, if you don’t do something right now, I’m going to fucking molest you, I’m going to –”

His mindless threats turn into a loud gasp as he feels Shizuo’s fingers sinking into him without warning. His body painfully arches out of instinct, and he throws his head back, eyes falling shut and mouth hanging open around a string of unintelligible whimpers. His brain stops working altogether, but this strange state of unconsciousness is not as scary as he deemed it to be. It’s pleasant, even. All he can do is _feel_ – Shizuo’s fingers moving inside him, gentle and deliberate, contrasting with the strength of the arm holding him by the waist – and he’s never be reminded like that of how human, of how weak he truly is.

He lets himself go, releasing years and years of tension accumulated in his tight muscles with the faintest sigh, accommodating to the strange sensation of foreign pressure inside him. Izaya is a man of many desires, and though he has always pursued dreams that stood far beyond the grasp of the average people, the fire coursing through his veins and escaping his lips in a succession of hot moans is a painful reminder of how deeply he still craves for such ordinary things. Somewhere close to his ear, no doubt Shizuo is voicing his concern, asking if everything is alright because _of course_ he would be so thoughtful. But Izaya can’t hear any more than he can see. He’s blind and deaf – and as much as he would have liked to annoy the other man and pretend he’s not completely falling apart, it seems the even the simple ability to assemble words into sentences has left him as well. His body arches to push against Shizuo, silently begging for more.

More pressure, more friction, more heat.

_More, more, more._

Shizuo’s weight leaves him for a couple of seconds that passes for an eternity. There’s some rustling, a cold draft caused by movement and absence, a shaky exhale expressing hesitation – and then, an unbearable surge of fire and pain that washes over him and inside him with the overpowering force of a tidal wave. His teeth grit tight and pull on the soft of his inner lip to stop himself from crying out. The motion only brings more pain though, and he draws in a sharp breath through his nose, face twisted and brows creased in effort as his fingernails scrap at the cushion, frantic like a wild cat. He can’t make out Shizuo’s voice over the persistent white noise buzzing in his brain, but he manages a brief, breathless chuckle. The pain is the only thing that’s holding him down, that prevents him from tumbling further and over into complete chaos. Rough hands come to stroke his sides in an attempt to soothe the burn.

Izaya doesn’t care. When he realizes Shizuo is waiting for some kind of permission, he presses back to fully welcome the whole length of Shizuo’s cock inside of him and howls, the sound of his voice melting around the surprised, trembling moans that escapes the other man. He barely takes enough time to adjust before he starts moving, ignoring the throbbing pain of being stretched open that much and that fast. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care, because he wants it, he wants it so damn much he’s not sure he’d be able to live for another second if he can’t have it. Shizuo is grunting, holding him too tight with bruising fingers digging into skin, pleading Izaya to slow down. But Izaya doesn’t listen. Shizuo could come right here, right now, he’d still fuck himself onto his cock, over and over, into oblivion.

Hidden behind a veil of black hair, there is a wide grin that has never meant anything but trouble and dark blood irises burning with the intent of mischief. “Shizuo,” Izaya breathes as he braces his arms on the cushion to push himself up until he can feel his shoulder blades press into the other’s chest. Shizuo’s mouth falls open on the curve of his neck, not quite kissing, damping the skin. “I wanna ride you.”

Shizuo whimpers something unintelligible, the motion of his soft, wet lips bringing out another trail of shivers down Izaya’s spine when they finally part to mutter: “No room. Can’t move.”

“ _For fuck’s sake_ ,” Izaya whines and tries his best to get Shizuo down on his back, but it’s like trying to move a wall, and he knows he won’t achieve anything doing it. “At least make a fucking effort.”

Powerful arms wind around his waist, and then he’s falling. All the air he was desperately keeping in his lungs leaves him then, knocked out by the impact and rushing past his scorching throat to fill the room with a sinful sound he should probably be ashamed of. They’re both still and speechless for a while, until Izaya breaks the silence with his usual detachment: “Is that loud enough for you, Shizu-chan?”

“Shit. Why the hell do you have to be so fucking _hot_.” Shizuo’s fingers knead the flesh just below his hipbones and Izaya hums in contentment. He shoots him a nasty glance over his shoulder. “Am I, now?” he croons as his hips start to move on their own, hasty and erratic, and his nails sink just above Shizuo’s knees for support.

“Yeah, _fuck_ ,” Shizuo grunts in between heavy, ragged breaths. “Still wanna punch your face though.” The frivolity of such an untimely statement makes Izaya giggle, makes something bright and warm churn in his guts. It’s familiar and easy, even if his reaction is less immediate than it would’ve been in any other situation.

“Please, do restrain yourself. Now, why don’t you shut your big, useless mouth and let me do my thing?” He tilts his head to the side and bites his lips in concentration while he tries to find a better angle. His voice is too raw, lacks its usual sharpness and the taunts that were meant to be disrespectful come out in a way that sounds awfully tender, almost loving. “You just lie there and look pretty for me, alright?”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo retorts anyway, because that’s what they do, and neither of them is willing to take the risk and change their dynamics. “You can’t even _see_ me.”

“Well then, it’s even better,” Izaya pants, baring his teeth. His body trembles from the pressure of a laugh that struggles to leave his constricted chest when he hears Shizuo’s furious groan, and his fingers have to dig deeper into the other man’s thighs to maintain his balance.

“ _Fuck you_.”

“I’m trying, actually,” he points out with an eye-roll and a smug smile that both remain unseen. That, after all, is what effectively silences Shizuo. Izaya lets out a sigh that is too loud to be unintentional, closes his eyes and stops thinking about anything but lifting his hips and bringing them down again. He ends up finding a rhythm that suits him, between violence and precision. Treacherous and gratifying. Behind him, Shizuo’s raspy moans are growing more and more desperate every time their bodies meet, every time the sound of skin on skin triggers another deliberately obscene cry out of Izaya. Deliberate, but not faked.

On the dark canvas of his eyelids, he watches his mind’s ever-changing projection of Shizuo’s features, expressions and poses – and if he craves to see what the truth looks like, he can’t get himself to face it and it’s not too difficult to pretend that he’s perfectly content with his fantasies. He’s a coward, maybe, for not looking Shizuo in the eye, for holding on to the hope that he will later be able to act like this was just a dream. But he doesn’t want to think – about it, about how intimate this is – and he impales himself on Shizuo’s cock, harder still. Hard enough that, hopefully, what little consciousness remains will be forever drown in the rare mixture of pain and pleasure that rushes through him and coils in his stomach.

It works. His thoughts don’t bother him again, and he loses himself to the heat. Shizuo has sat up and is holding him against his chest, and Izaya feels so, so small in this crushing embrace, so precious with the way Shizuo’s lips are grazing his neck, mouthing silent vows of possessiveness, devotion and resentment on his pale, vulnerable skin. He feels so desirable. Unbearably real.

“ _Izaya…_ ” The familiar syllables of his name spoken by this familiar voice are light drizzle on his feverish flesh and fuel to the fire all at once. He can’t control the miserable whimpers escaping his mouth any more than he can stop his body from shaking and crumbling. “Fuck, Izaya, you –“

There’s a hand closing around his length – _finally_ – and Izaya gives out a long, blissful moan that resonates all the way down to his suddenly weak knees. He lets his head tilt back to rest against Shizuo’s shoulder, and Shizuo presses his mouth to his temple, jerking him with just enough force that it fleetingly reminds Izaya of how hazardous it is to submit himself to this man. But when he opens his eyes, he can barely make out Shizuo’s face through his thick lashes and all the wild strands bouncing in front of him, through the inescapable blur of pleasure and sweat and steam that clouds over his vision, and he’s hit with the realization that he’s not afraid.

“– you’re fucking _beautiful_.” Izaya tenses up, arching his back and making little, embarrassing mewling sounds, a crease weighing down the thin line of his brows. Shizuo keeps stroking him, both with his hand and his sweet talk, and Izaya never wants him to stop. “You’re so fucking beautiful and you – you feel so fucking good. I…” He’s getting close. Whatever words should have come next, they’re lost and forgotten. Izaya’s frantic scraping is leaving smears of red on Shizuo’s thighs and arms. Everything inside him is being set ablaze and he can’t breathe anymore, not even with his mouth gaping around the air that desperately escapes him and doesn’t come back, and he can’t tell if his chest is too tight or if it’s about to explode.

“Shit, Izaya.” Their eyes meet and lock and Izaya’s world falls into place. It’s quiet and unexpectedly delicate. A single cry catches in his throat and he chokes on it. In the end, it’s merely a feeble whisper that eventually passes his lips to breeze over Shizuo’s skin. Izaya comes with only the sound of his heart hectically beating inside his chest like a caged bird’s wings, unable to care about anything that belongs outside of Shizuo’s golden-brown irises fixed on him. Then, he goes numb and collapses, grateful for the solid wall of Shizuo’s body that catches him mid-fall.

Izaya is barely aware of Shizuo’s hands around his waist that lift him high enough for his hips to urgently buck in search of his own release. Lost in a dream-like haze, he watches Shizuo’s face contort as if in pain, jaws clenched around a beastlike groan, and then loosen altogether. He can’t tell the exact moment where it shifted, but he can feel Shizuo’s warm cum filling him and he thinks he’s going to faint because this is way too much for him to process. Shizuo lets himself drop down on the couch, taking Izaya with him, still holding him tight, and Izaya’s protest, much like everything else, dies before it is even born, leaving him in complete darkness.


	5. Isolated System

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Seeing him like this, Shizuo thinks he might never get a better chance to snap his neck once and for all.  
> But then, as his eyes trail down the impossible curve of Izaya’s back while he's leaning out of the window to smoke the cigarette he’s plucked out from his own lips a couple of minutes ago, he wants to fuck him again and it takes him by surprise, because it’s not like he used to have that kind of thoughts."  
> — Shizuo is confused, Izaya is elusive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The real summary should be: "Why can't you two have a normal conversation?"  
> Guess who can't do the exact thing I said they'd be doing? I swear these boys have no respect for the author. 
> 
> This might be a little chaotic because there's too many things to talk about, and so many emotions, it's overwhelming.  
> There will be strawberries next time. Sweet, sweet strawberries to forget about the bitterness. 
> 
> Thank youuu so much for your reactions to last chapter! You're so nice! I was so scared, but it was 100% worh it! 
> 
> Alright, this is it for now. Enjoy, and see you next time,
> 
> ♥

Seeing him like this, Shizuo thinks he might never get a better chance to snap his neck once and for all.

But then, as his eyes trail down the impossible curve of Izaya’s back, leaning out of the window to smoke the cigarette he’s plucked out from his own lips, he wants to fuck him again and it takes him by surprise, because it’s not like he used to have that kind of thought. Shizuo’s gaze goes back to study Izaya’s profile and, for a while, he contemplates the idea that he was wrong to believe this man could ever be able to run away from time itself.

Maybe it’s just something in the way light catches his face.

Izaya is all bones, looking like they are about to pierce through his flesh, and shadows, coiling under every prominent angle of his brittle frame. From where Shizuo is seated, he seems as tired and neglected as anyone else. The scheming glimmer in his blood eyes has receded, has been replaced by an endless, cold and maroon sea over which girlish lashes are casting the promise of a storm.

It’s not a pleasant sight. To be honest, Shizuo never wished for Izaya to have a good life – but neither did he wish for him to suffer. The ash falling off his cigarette and onto his lap marks off every new passing minute spent in silence. He’s afraid words would rip to shreds the comfortable blanket pleasure has thrown over the whole apartment, would shatter the illusion of numb tranquillity. He’s not ready for confrontation. Not right now. Not ever, maybe.

Still, there’s a part of him, surely blinded by the afterglow, that desperately wants to get closer. That’s longing to feel and discover the other’s wounds – to see just how much they’ve grown similar. But even this monstrous strength of his might not be enough to keep Izaya from fading away, just like it’d be useless to try and hold on to smoke.

How did they end up here? Has desire been there all along, buried deep within, or was it born from too many months spent alone, too many days spent with the feeling of being stranded? And why do his fingers itch with the unbearable need to clasp the moment and never let go? Shizuo wants to ask Izaya all these questions. The sigh trying to push past his lips remains a prisoner inside his worried chest and he barely frowns instead. It’s unsettling that Izaya hasn’t found a cruel thing to say yet. 

Shizuo’s cigarette has burnt to the filter by the time he manages to clear his throat. Izaya doesn’t turn to look at him, doesn’t even bat an eye. The butt of his own smoke loosely hangs between his long fingers, dead and forgotten.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Shizuo eventually inquires and regrets it when only silence greets his raspy voice. It’s too late. He keeps blurting out words that didn’t have enough time to be thought through. “I mean – no, forget it. I, just, I… I didn’t know. You, uh. _Fuck_.”

He would have hidden his face in his hands in embarrassment, but he’s too tired to move and too weak to fight off the tight grip dread has already secured around his throat. Izaya makes a fond noise, equally affectionate and condescending, like he’s just been presented a litter of fluffy kittens, and he barely spares him a quick, side glance before his attention is drawn back to the neighbouring building.

“Is Shizu-chan trying to pillow talk me? ‘Cause it’s absolutely awful and I kinda wish you’d stop right now,” Izaya teases without the hint of a nasty grin, apparently lacking the will to invest himself in his own banter. Shizuo is strangely grateful for that, because it feels easier to snap back, honesty and revenge tangled up with his tongue in a bitter embrace.

“Shit, Izaya,” he annoyingly breathes out, flicking his cigarette butt into the ashtray. “You’re never saying anything, you can’t blame me for trying.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” comes Izaya’s immediate, conclusive interjection – but it’s too quick and such a blatant lie that it makes Shizuo’s lips curl up into a soft smile despite the harsh tone. “I’m just enjoying a smoke and I’ll be out.”

They’re both aware that Izaya’s dead cigarette is not that good of an excuse anymore. Shizuo knows better than to bring it up, though – Izaya dislikes talking about the obvious and it’s already hard enough to navigate across the man’s radiating instability. He decides it’s best to humour him and snatch another one from his pack, if only to pretend it’s still his first. Shizuo watches the smoke rise to the ceiling where it forms a thick cocoon, letting his head fall back against the cushions.

“This is weird,” he muses, and he’s not sure whether his voice sounds angry or amused because it’s oddly distant to his own ears.

“What?”

“You, me, sharing cigarettes now,” he goes on to explain, hopefully straying them from more disturbing, uneasy thoughts.

“Not a single piece of furniture broken,” Izaya provides with an exaggerated sigh of relief and Shizuo recognizes the edges of a smile cut around the words even when he’s not able to see the other’s face.

“No life-threatening injury,” he adds. Izaya giggles. It’s not one of his usual, irritating and fake cackles. It’s light and genuine and for a moment, Shizuo forgets everything he thought he knew about the man currently leaning out of his window, wearing nothing but a tee-shirt and underwear in the brisk, January air. He finds himself wondering about _who_ exactly is Izaya when he’s not conspiring, brooding alone in his empty apartment or out to ruin somebody else’s life. What makes him laugh? What does he crave for, what does he fear? Who does he see when he looks in the mirror?

Maybe it’s only the natural reaction of shared intimacy, or maybe it’s still that twisted curiosity he’s always feeling towards Izaya, but Shizuo can’t resist either way.

“Do you –“ he begins and Izaya abruptly cuts him off, voice low and menacing all over again. He’s gone too far, of course.

“ _Shizu-chan_. I know you’re high on oxytocin and all, and I won’t blame you since it’s a perfectly normal reaction, but don’t push it,” he states, finally turning and leaving his spot to face Shizuo who’s still slumped on the couch, mostly naked with the exception of his open shirt that isn’t really doing a good job at concealing any part of his anatomy. Izaya cringes at the sight and wildly flails his hands while he scurries to gather the rest of his scattered clothes.

“Put something on, you uneducated beast!”

Shizuo’s trousers and boxers are violently thrown to his face and he struggles to muffle a quiet, ruthless laugh. “Tea?” he dully asks while he’s getting up and dressed. It’s not a true offer, not even a half-assed attempt to drive them back into a state of normality. It’s just small talk at this point, and he’s most likely to be rejected in due form. Izaya looks like he’s been slapped with a telephone pole.

“ _Excuse me?_ What did I tell you?”

He’s shimmying, struggling to put his skinny pants up, glaring at him with wide eyes and tousled hair. Shizuo finds it weirdly endearing – to see a man such as Orihara Izaya, once so feared, having a hard time with the mundane. It’s priceless information, but Shizuo doesn’t like to share the few things he knows about Izaya. He’s always felt they were his privilege for being his sworn enemy, and his curse, because the more he uncovered, the more he wanted to understand. “I’m not planning to hang around, you know. I have better things to do.”

“Sure,” Shizuo concedes, holding Izaya’s gaze for a bit longer than necessary. “What a shame, you were being so nice.” His voice is dipped in irony, but he can’t totally suppress the sticky disappointment that’s coating it. He’s not good at lying.

Izaya’s confused grimace turns into a full-fledged smirk, and under his lowered brows that are drawn together in what looks like a mix of pity and derision, his eyes are glittering with evil intent. This can’t mean anything good. Shizuo feels his whole body tensing up, the same way it always does before a fight, getting ready to take the hit.

“Sarcasm isn’t really Shizu-chan’s strong suit, but, ah…” Izaya sighs, running a hand through messy black strands, lightly tilting his head. “Just like so many things that require the clever use of the mind. You should just focus on physical things. Would flipping the table make you feel better about yourself?” he chirps, his hands flying to join behind his back as he leans forward, sporting a smile Shizuo wants nothing more than to wipe off his face, possibly with an inappropriate amount of strength – come to think of it, crushing his vicious lips under his mouth might be another option.

He takes one step and then his fist is closing around Izaya’s shirt, forcefully tugging at the soft fabric. The space between them fills with electricity, heat or poison – maybe all at once. Crimson eyes bore into his, screaming bad news, and Shizuo brings his face close enough to feel Izaya’s startled breath rushing over his cheeks. His face flushes like he’s standing too close to a fire.

“You wanna go at it again, uh?” Shizuo growls and he hates himself for it because Izaya is _gloating_. “You wanna? Is this how it’s gonna be, now?” He means for it to sound frightening and furious, but his voice cracks at some point, and the words drop at their feet as though they’re nothing but beads of a broken rosary.

He’s mad at him. But he can’t _hate_ him – not when he can still taste the sourness of his skin. Not when the memory of him looking so lost and frail and vulnerable between his arms is burning holes through the fabric of reality itself. Was this a mistake or an opportunity? When will he know?

“ _No,_ ” Izaya hisses and he pulls himself free of Shizuo’s slack grip, rearranging his tee-shirt with a quick, unsteady hand. He’s glaring at him, and Shizuo knows he shouldn’t feel guilty but that doesn’t stop the bitterness to spread over his tongue. He doesn’t want things to be this way. He doesn’t want Izaya to hide, to run away, to overthink, to regret.

“I’m sorry,” Shizuo whispers, his frown slowly morphing into something weary. He’s sorry – for what, though, he doesn’t say. For raising his voice. For his poor conversational skills and for thinking they could act like _normal people f_ or once. For having crossed the last line that still stood between them and utter chaos and enjoyed every single moment of it. Izaya flashes white teeth but smiling would be too much effort and the corners of his lips remain motionless, making him look like a wounded animal.

“Well, I’m not.”

For what, he doesn’t say either. Izaya storms out without another word, leaving Shizuo to stare at the empty spot, at his hand that is still raised in front of him while he’s uselessly clenching and unclenching his daft fingers. It’s too late – the moment’s gone.

+

_< < You forgot your coat >>_

_< < You can come get it >>_

_< < Just let me know >>_

_< < Uh, I’m sorry but you must have got the wrong number. >>_

+

Whenever Shizuo closes his eyes, there is Izaya. His annoying voice, his tempting lips curved around his cock or around clever insults. His white skin covered in a shimmering sheen of sweat. There is Izaya – how he looked at him, how he shivered and shook and came with Shizuo’s hands on him and Shizuo’s dick buried deep in him. The curve of his neck and the arch of his back, how it would show the bones underneath.

Even when he’s replaying the events that preceded their unexpected _interaction_ , he can’t seem to remember how it happened. Izaya had been bothering him like he was trying to win a fucking world championship and somehow thought he wasn’t the only one competing – but that wasn’t unusual. Over the last few months, he had made it pretty clear he wouldn’t give up on pissing Shizuo off as long as he was still breathing. Shizuo can consider that Izaya, maybe, upon realizing he wouldn’t get a proper chase anymore, had decided to test a new approach.

But he can’t understand how naturally the idea of pushing him against a wall came to him.

He doesn’t remember how it happened, but he _does_ remember what it felt like. It was fear, at first – fear of losing the last thing that still makes sense in his excruciating, ordinary life, because he’s too tired and cowardly to be the monster Izaya wants him to be. And there was frustration then, because Shizuo can only hold on to something for so long before it breaks in his hands, so the only way to preserve what really matters is to let it go, but most people tend to leave when they get the feeling they’re not held tight enough and he doesn’t know what is expected of him. He never has.

He’s still unsure whether he wants Izaya to stay or to disappear, and this might be one amongst many other reasons that made him want to _have_ him; because if Izaya breaks like the others, then he’ll be free to leave this town for good. And if he’s able to take it, then Shizuo just might be able to _live_.

Anger and desire are working to design the contours of this twisted new world they’re set to imprison him in. They’re blurring the lines between what Shizuo knows is right and what he thinks should be wrong – sending wave after wave of doubt to crash against foundations that wouldn’t have stood longer if they had been made of sand. Worse, they’re breaking every wall he’s managed to build around the ever swirling and boiling emotional pit that serves as his heart, and Shizuo never knew he could burn without somehow turning to ashes, never knew he could be torn apart on the inside and still be whole on the outside.

Days go by and he wishes he were strong enough to pull them to pieces. He doesn’t go to work, has called in sick because he doesn’t trust himself to stay calm and harmless for eight hours straight, and if the current state of his walls is anything to go by, he’s better left alone. In his lair, where he can’t hurt anyone but himself, and even on nights where the moon isn’t full, he can feel the beast trying to rip out his skin. It would be easy to blame Izaya for ruining everything again, just like before, but it would also be dishonest and Shizuo likes to believe he’s past it now.

But if he truly were a better person, he wouldn’t have given in. If he truly wanted a peaceful life, he would have turned him down when he had the chance – and there have been too many missed opportunities to argue that he couldn’t have known. Why do they always have to go too fast when it feels like they need multiples eternities to understand each other?

Shizuo wonders when he’ll hear from Izaya again – not _if_ , because he’s convinced he will. No matter how elusive Izaya can be, he knows there’s nobody left around him and they’re both still as clueless about loneliness as they were years ago, as they’ve always been. If not for him, then Izaya would surely come around for lack of anywhere else to go, of anyone else to turn to. Out of boredom, maybe. Probably.

Shizuo doesn’t really care about what reasons he’ll come up with; when they’re not lies, they’re at best convoluted truths and he doesn’t have enough patience to peel away Izaya’s countless layers of pretence. It’s too complicated. It makes his brain buzz with pain and his blood run hot and wild with the need to crush everything within his reach. And because he can’t possibly make assumptions about Izaya other than he’s an annoying, twisted _bastard_ , Shizuo simply waits.

And while he waits, he thinks there’s an uncanny resemblance between his own violence and Izaya’s bad habit of messing everything up. They share this strange curse that forces them to corrupt and destroy and waste anything good around them. They’re behaving like an antidote to hope would, and Shizuo idly asks himself if they would cancel each other out in the end or bring each other further down into darkness and misery. 

+

_< < Are you free tomorrow? >>_

_< < Izaya? >>_

_< < How many freaking phones do you have? >>_

_< < I have more phones than there are neurons in your atrophied brain. >>_

_< < And by that, I obviously mean more than two. >>_

_< < Yes, I’m available >>_

_< < What time? >>_

+

Izaya doesn’t show up and it is half excepted, half disappointing. Shizuo takes the day off and stays in his appartment where he thinks for hours about Izaya’s glossy hair and perfect skin and captivating perfume. He tries to imagine what he’s up to, tries to picture him leaning over a computer screen, smiling to himself as he comes across some juicy gossip. He sees the delicate line of his shoulders, the provocative tilt of too thin hips. He wonders if he’s wearing another coat to go out, or if he has a wardrobe full of identical ones. He saves the new number in his phone and deletes the first one, then turns the device off.

_One Orihara Izaya is already one too many._

He used to obsess over Izaya, when they were younger and when the streets of Ikebukuro were still a battlefield. If it was bad then, it’s worse now, because Shizuo doesn’t have anything else going on his life and as much as it pains him to admit, he’s bored – so bored it’s driving him to the edge of madness. If he weren’t so angry and agitated, he might have realized that he’s missing Izaya, in a weird way. That what he’s craving for is their old, familiar banter. The thrilling sense of danger that seems to fill the air whenever they are alone together.

+

_< < You do like strawberries, right? >>_

_< < You didn’t come last week >>_

_< < Care to tell me why? >>_

_< < I’m asking you a yes-no question. >>_

_< < Honestly, I can’t really do simpler than that. >>_

_< < Yes, I do like strawberries. >>_

_< < Why do you ask? >>_

_< < Well I guess you’ll find out (_ _･ω_ _< )_ _☆_ _> >_

_< < Seriously >>_

_< < You’re the worst >>_

_< < Who the fuck is this? >>_

_< < Sry. Wrong number. >>_

+

Two days later, Shizuo wakes up to an unread message, coming from yet another unknown number, that properly gives him a location and a time. He’s almost sure of it, now; Izaya is stealing some random strangers’ phones to text him and putting them back in their pocket when he’s done.


	6. Strawberries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "“Alright,” Shizuo cuts him, both hands coming to rest on the table with a loud thud that briefly startles the other man. “Here’s what I’m gonna do: I’m gonna eat a strawberry for each lie that slips out of your pretty little mouth and when I’m done, I’m gonna get up and leave.”  
> “Pay very close attention to my pretty mouth, then,” Izaya articulates with purpose, and Shizuo’s eyes are immediately, obediently drawn to his lips. “I am not afraid of you.”" — In which Shizuo and Izaya go on a not-a-date and try to talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, you could categorize this as fluff. But since we're talking about Shizaya, it's not really fluff;   
> they just do their weird thing. 
> 
> Still, we're a step closer to mutual understanding – maybe. 
> 
> Enjoy this chapter (is it me or do they keep getting longer? I should probably calm down) and see you later!
> 
> ♥

“You’re sure you don’t want to eat anything?” Shizuo asks with little concern, sparing a glance to Izaya’s cup of coffee and then looking down at his own plate, large enough to fit one piece of each of the three cakes that caught his attention.

Izaya’s choice of meeting place is an old-school café, hidden deep in Shinjuku’s urban jungle. It’s quiet, cosy and not too frequented at this hour of a weekday. Shizuo expected something cheaper because he believed Izaya wouldn’t miss an opportunity to insult him, but this oddly feels worse. He’s getting self-conscious again, and even Izaya’s laid-back manners are not enough to reassure him.

“No thank you, I don’t want to catch diabetes,” Izaya declines, making himself comfortable on the wooden bench, putting one foot up on it under Shizuo’s reprobating gaze. Izaya always needs to act like he owns the place. As far as Shizuo is aware of, he doesn’t care about decency. He doesn’t care about _anything_ until he can make use of it.

“You can’t _catch_ it just like that, it’s not a fucking cold –“

“Just eat and shut up,” Izaya cuts him with a dismissive wave of his hand. Shizuo shrugs and drops the argument in favour of doing what he’s told, because the pastries look downright gorgeous and it would take more than a moody Izaya to ruin the moment. Why the hell would he take him to a place like this if not to enjoy the food? 

“Nice place for a date,” he can’t help but remark with the hint of a mocking smile that quickly disappears as he takes a mouthful of cake. It tastes de _cadent_ and it nearly makes him moan in awe. He closes his eyes for a better experience but can still feel the weight of Izaya looking down on him.

“It’s not a date if it’s boring,” he whines. “Obviously, I’m trying to get you uninterested.”

“’M not,” Shizuo mumbles with his mouth full, cracks an eye open to see what the expression on Izaya’s face is. His stupid heart starts beating faster when he realizes there’s a light tension in his cruel lips that implies he's thinking of teasing. It’s not the first time, but it’s different because now Shizuo knows what Izaya sounds like. What he looks like, what he feels like.

“Uninterested?” Izaya playfully drawls, raising a taunting brow while Shizuo glares, scoffs, blushes and ultimately tries to put it all down to some king of sugar-induced bliss. Izaya lets it slide though, leaning to rest his chin on his hand with a frown, and idly stirs his coffee. “The only reason I brought you here in the first place is because I thought you’d be so busy stuffing your mouth like a pig that you wouldn’t be _talking_.”

“Could’ve brought me cake at home and then left. That way I wouldn’t even have needed to see your fucking face,” Shizuo states, ignoring the outraged sound Izaya makes and casually swinging his spoon in front of him in a way that suggests scolding. When he brings it down again, it’s to dig a large piece of cake he then presents to Izaya, who suspiciously eyes the soft genoise. It’s filled with a pink mousse, bits of strawberries and topped by a heavy-looking icing of butter and cream. His face twists into a look of sheer disgust. He pouts and smacks Shizuo’s hand away, then innocently smiles, making a show of fluttering eyelashes when he hears the satisfying splashing sound that follows.

“Seriously? You’re a fucking child! Why the hell would you wanna waste something so good?” Shizuo exclaims, mouth agape, and for a moment he looks like he’s about to salvage what he can from the mess but decides against it for the sake of dignity. He drags his plate closer to his side of the table, not trusting Izaya to behave himself.

Izaya laughs this warm, little chuckle that has Shizuo choking on powdered sugar, eyes going wide for a split second before he’s able to fall back in the comfort of a deadpan stare.

“Really, now? You have the nerve to complain even though you’ve got three different shapes of sugar overdose in front of you. If I am a child, then I suppose you’re not better than me,” he quips, head tilted to the side and glowing with amusement.

Shizuo doesn’t really know why he’s so interested in the way Izaya’s slender fingers are holding his cup, or why he feels the need to watch his lips part to drink. To anyone else, Izaya’s appearance is the same as usual, but Shizuo isn’t anyone and he _notices_. His hair is shinier, carefully undone. His thin, dark-red sweater hugs him tight enough to show the narrow width of his chest, and the colour complements the paleness of his skin as much as the dangerous shade of his irises.

And all of this, somehow, is purely meant for him to look at. He’s getting better at non-verbal communication, even if Izaya’s intent shows just how much he doesn’t trust Shizuo to understand how words work.

“That’s only because you’re paying,” Shizuo splutters and when Izaya opens his mouth to protest, he lifts a finger in warning. “Nuh-uh, I don’t wanna hear it, _Izaya_. You bailed out on me. You’re definitely paying.”

“Right.” Izaya crosses his arms and huffs. “You better lick every single crumb off your plate. This shit’s expensive.”

Shizuo can’t think of a time when he and Izaya have been on the same page about anything. Then again, he never thought they could stand in the same room without somehow wreaking havoc, or that Izaya would buy him sweets for a purpose entirely different than one of poisoning him, and even less that all of these unthinkable occasions would occur after the most peculiar turn of events in the history of Ikebukuro.

Shizuo slowly rolls up his sleeves to show just how ready he is to go through with this mission. “So, what are you spoiling me for? Is this my last meal?” he inquires between two mouthfuls, because of course Izaya isn’t doing any of this for the simple pleasure of watching him stuffing himself – and especially not since Shizuo is doing his best to turn the basic act of eating into an absolutely non-elegant, non-subtle visual and auditive torture. If he could get Izaya so much as to wince, it would make his afternoon fucking brilliant.

He’s out of luck, though. Izaya sees through him and retaliates by looking at him with an unsufferable look of patronizing fondness for the beastlike display Shizuo offers.

“No, although the idea is lovely! I’ll be sure to save it for later,” he sing-songs, then reclines against the back of his seat, crossing both arms behind his head. “Think of this as some kind of… apology.”

Shizuo has to put his spoon back down. He blinks a few times, wondering if he heard Izaya right.

“For _everything_ , or is this about last time? Just so I know how many more cakes I’m supposed to order to make your apology actually worth something,” he tries in a low voice as his stomach starts to twist, and if he meant for it to be nothing more than a joke, the way his jaw tightens around the words is bending them into the recognizable shape of a threat.

Izaya only laughs it off. “So witty! I wonder who you’ve been hanging out with, lately…”

“We’re not _hanging out_ ,” Shizuo sighs. He’s already getting tired of Izaya’s defensive taunts, but even his fists can’t beat the truth out of his mouth and that leaves him with few other options than putting up with it. “You’re just following me. You’re basically my shadow at this point.”

“Ooh, your shadow, I like the sound of that,” Izaya whispers, faking a shiver of pleasure. “But I must say, you hurt me, Shizu-chan. Here I thought we had a thing going on.”

“Like hell we do,” Shizuo spits and takes his fingers away from the spoon before he has the chance to snap it in two. “You disappeared for almost a month just because we got a bit… Uh…” he trails off, unable to find the proper way to express what happened between them without ending up too flustered, too easy of a target for Izaya to shoot at and do his usual damage. He’s intently staring at his plate when he finally settles on the word “physical”, barely muttering it, and then braces himself for a fiendish, mocking laugh that doesn’t come.

It’s oddly silent for a moment, enough for Shizuo to raise an eye and see Izaya’s face, tense and obviously displeased, but with an eerie thoughtfulness in his faraway gaze. Shizuo thinks of that night on the roof, of how small a man who’s spent his life believing he was above everyone else suddenly looks when he realizes nobody ever cared. After all, even a god can only exist if he’s in the heart of his followers.

“How do you know?” Izaya eventually asks him, flat tone and bitter tongue giving mixed signals that Shizuo’s brain would usually rather interpret as his cue to throw something heavy in the air. But not anymore. “I told you before, I’m a busy man.”

“And I told you before. You’re a fucking liar,” he retorts in a cold imitation of Izaya’s way of talking. That gets him a menacing glare but Shizuo doesn’t care. He meets Izaya’s irises and faces everything they hold without a flinch – deep-rooted hatred, starless nights and old blood like rust eating away at iron chains. The madness there never really scared him; if anything, it’s only made him weaker, forcing him to _empathize_ with Izaya’s own inner beast.

A couple of seconds later, Izaya is averting his gaze and shrugging as though he believes Shizuo to be helpless. “I don’t see why you think I’d get scared because of –“

“Alright,” Shizuo cuts him, both hands coming to rest on the table with a loud thud that briefly startles the other man. “Here’s what I’m gonna do: I’m gonna eat a strawberry for each lie that slips out of your pretty little mouth and when I’m done, I’m gonna get up and leave.”

It’s a fair deal, he thinks, and he would congratulate himself for keeping his cool if Izaya wasn’t leaning forward, radiating heat and rot and twisted desire. Shizuo can’t look away, curses the shivers that blossom on his arms and run down his spine, setting each one of his nerve humming with electricity.

“Pay very close attention to my _pretty_ mouth, then,” Izaya articulates with purpose, and Shizuo’s eyes are immediately, obediently drawn to his lips. They’re lovely – too lovely to be doing the devil’s work, or maybe lovely enough to do just that. “I am not afraid of you. I just had some stuff to deal with – which is none of your business, by the way.”

Although distantly, Shizuo wonders where this strange ability that’s always allowed him to see right through Izaya comes from. Kazuka used to tell him that he was just as perceptive as him, that they shared a quiet understanding of others because they were always watching, never really blending in. He scrutinizes Izaya’s face, every little twitch becoming a piece of the puzzle that Shizuo is still trying to assemble. He cuts a strawberry with the side of his spoon without breaking eye contact, brings it up to his mouth and watches as Izaya’s grits his teeth, furrows his brow and clicks his tongue in a mixture of annoyance and surprise.

“Are you eating a _half_?” he asks, almost seething, drumming his fingers on the table. “Why? Are semi-lies a thing? I refuse to play your game unless I get to hear all the rules.”

Shizuo purses his lips, licks the sugar off them, takes his sweet time before finally shrugging his shoulders with as much indifference as he can muster in a situation like this. “It doesn’t matter to you, because I’m the only one playing. All you have to do is be honest.”

The dark sparkle briefly crossing Izaya’s eyes is a reminder that some embers never really die. With a detached sigh, he tilts his head until it’s almost resting against his shoulder as he runs a nail around the rim of his empty cup of coffee.

“The weather is nice, today,” he notes, crooked grin and noncommittal tone. Shizuo takes his anger out on an unsuspecting piece of cake, still set on maintaining his calm but finding it increasingly hard to do so with Izaya acting like this is nothing serious. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Izaya. I really, really fucking hate you.”

“Now, now, Shizu-chan, you can’t possibly say that to the person who’s treating you to multiple desserts. It’s rude,” comes Izaya’s unavoidable impertinent comment and Shizuo growls, tries to rub the frown off his face with his hand but it's useless. The situation, which was actually quite nice mere minutes ago, is once again slipping out of control and he doesn’t know how much he’s willing to take the blame for it.

“Why can’t we just talk?” he asks, and he feels like crying from the burn in his eyes, his uneven voice threatening to become a roar. “Why is it so fucking hard to _talk_?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Shizu-chan,” Izaya jeers, his mouth fucking drooling from all the hypocrisy that’s filling it and Shizuo swears he can see black spit dripping on his chin. “I’m _so_ sorry, but I never thought about wasting my time studying the behaviour of your kin when humans are already so interesting. And obviously I didn’t take evening lessons or join a club to learn how to communicate with monsters.”

“But you _did_ spend an unhealthy amount of time on my back, so no one should know me better than you do, right?” Shizuo reasons because he can’t trust what he’ll do if he doesn’t. He wants answers – even if they’re only devious excuses, crafty lies which will probably result in nagging headaches, self-loathing and restless nights. Words seem to be working their way through Izaya’s intricate mind, to remind him that there’s no argument he doesn’t have the spirit to win. He lets out a trembling sigh and spreads his arms in defeat, shaking his head from left to right.

“No, I don’t. I don’t know you. I can’t. Trust me, I tried, but I could never begin to understand how your dumb brain works,” Izaya hisses, growing more and more agitated as he speaks. He’s dropping the act, and the sight of it makes Shizuo’s hair stand on their end because there’s nothing more frightening, nothing more earth-shattering and thrilling and painful than to see Izaya lose his self-imposed constraint. “I _hate_ it, I can’t stand the thought of it, but I don’t get _you_. I don’t get you and it’s infuriating. You never act like you’re supposed to, it makes me want to… want to...”

Izaya never finishes his sentence. His fingers are tensing, flexing around nothing like he’s trying to summon a knife out of thin air or as if the motion would somehow help him to angle his words better, to make them sharper and deadlier. Shizuo sees red – in his devilish eyes, spreading on his cheeks, smeared over lips slit open by the cutting edges of truth. He takes a strawberry between two fingers and holds it in front of him. Red is an ambivalent, conflicting colour. 

“You know what I think? I think you can, but you don’t want to, because if you did then you’d no longer have an excuse to keep pestering me and you _like_ it. You’d rather convince yourself that whatever I do, whatever I say, is the exact opposite of what you want,” Shizuo ponders, puts the strawberry in his mouth and then tilts his head back, blinking softly. “So, say it, then. What do you want from me, Izaya? What do you want me to do?”

“I wish you’d smash the table and hit me with it until I’m deaf and I can’t hear your stupid psychological blathering anymore,” Izaya says through gritted teeth, but it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t hurt at all, and Shizuo feels a distorted laugh building up inside his chest because Izaya’s words don’t mean anything. They never did. He asks himself what the frail body sitting across the table would have to say if he had a voice of his own, granted he’d be willing to listen even then. 

_Love me, don’t leave me, I hate being alone, I hate myself, restrain me, love me, feel me, give me attention, make me real, shut up, look at me, look at me, I’m right here, look at me, I’m with you, why don’t you love me, why don’t you listen to me?_

Or something along those lines, surely.

“I wanna kiss you,” he tells him like it’s nothing at all. It’s nothing more than a plain fact, after all – it can’t be a confession of any kind because Shizuo knows what he feels towards Izaya, and that’s certainly not love. There’s too much selfishness and resentment, and there have been too many mistakes to start anew. It’s a creeping obsession mixed with a wicked need for retribution and a desperate hope of salvation that makes him think of pernicious vines, smothering the life and the air out of him. It’s nothing good.

Nothing good ever grows around Izaya, just like nothing good can remain safe in Shizuo’s hands.

But like all the rest, these feelings, too, might come to pass and Shizuo thinks he’d like to see the day when the fire in their heart runs out.

Izaya blushes, and it could have been genuine but Shizuo can’t say for sure because he’s already putting on an act, lowering his gaze and hiding his face in his hands like he’s some shy girl from a questionable TV show. “Ah, now, Shizu-chan is saying such embarrassing things! But didn’t you just say you hate me? What kind of freak does that make you?” He carefully places a strand of hair behind his ear before looking up again with a sickened expression. “Besides, your lips must be all sticky and gross, I’m sure they would feel disgusting against mine. I haven’t eaten anything, after all.”

Shizuo reclines in the back of his seat, loudly sighs and blows at a few strands of hair that have fallen in front of his eyes. “You sure are damn hard to please,” he groans and slides the plate across the table towards Izaya. He can have the last strawberry, if that’s what he wants.

“Thanks, but you haven’t seen anything yet,” Izaya jokes with a lopsided smile that raises the corners of his lips as they circle around the plump fruit. Shizuo sees red again. 

+

“I take it you didn’t bring me back my coat,” Izaya asks when they’re on their way back to the station. There’s a spring in his step and he’s jumping on and off every bit of concrete sticking out, making Shizuo’s head spin. “What happened to it? Did you burn it? Sleep in it? Ugh, if you did then _I_ will be the one to burn it.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo eventually snaps, both hands buried in the pockets of his trousers, cigarette hanging from his lips. “I forgot, that’s all. You look better in this one anyway.”

It’s not exactly true, but Shizuo isn’t known for his sense of fashion and he enjoys the novelty anyway. Izaya is wearing some kind of oversized trench coat, all black, with a hood large enough to fit maybe two of him curled up in a ball. For a moment, his mouth hangs open as if he was about to make a snarky comment on Shizuo’s compliment, but whatever taunt he has in store dies on his lips. Shizuo catches a glimpse of something in his eyes, but it’s too fleeting, already gone by the time he can wonder about it.

“I hate it,” Izaya mutters under his breath and Shizuo eyes him sideways. “It doesn’t feel like me. I’m sure nobody recognizes me.”

“I’m sure nobody recognizes you, but that’s got nothing to do with your goddamn coat,” he calmly states in-between slow, long drags. Izaya shrugs.

“Like I said. I hate it.”

Of course, he does. Izaya has always liked some notion of fame, no matter how bad his reputation, and he keeps clinging to it even when it stopped making so much sense. They’re in the middle in Shinjuku and no one in the streets has pulled out a knife yet. That surely tells something. “Oh, come on. Don’t sulk, _Izaya-kun_ ,” Shizuo says, elbowing Izaya in the ribs. It’s supposed to be a playful move, but it sends the other man stumbling a few feet aside anyway.

“I don’t sulk. Don’t _be stupid_ ,” Izaya snorts and suddenly he’s getting closer, close enough to hook both arms around Shizuo’s and lean against him as they keep walking. Nobody cares. Nobody knows who this brown, average-looking guy and this shady man in a long black coat are, and if that housewife or this thug around the corner do have some doubts about their identity, they’re quick to dismiss the idea because, surely, they must have been mistaken.

Shizuo’s heart is beating a strange, lazy rhythm. Izaya’s weight at his side is barely noticeable, but his hands are like claws, like he’s got caught in the devil’s grip and there’s a distant threat about it that he’ll be ripped to shred if he tries to get away. Not that he’d like to try. It’s not a pleasant feeling, but as insane as it seems, it’s not one Shizuo would trade for anything either.

As they near Shinjuku’s station East Entrance, Izaya lets go of him and stops in his tracks, prompting Shizuo to slow down to shoot him a questioning glance over his shoulder. Izaya is rocking back and forth on his feet, a familiar smirk playing on his lips, hands in pockets but no switchblade comes out of them.

“Happy birthday, Shizu-chan,” he says in a tone that’s lost somewhere between open teasing and uncertainty. Shizuo blinks, dumbfounded.

“Uh, what? It’s in… two days.”

“I know,” Izaya states. He’s holding his gaze for a while, lifting his chin defiantly and then he shrugs. “But two days from now, I could be ruining your life again so today seemed fine, don’t you agree?”

Shizuo doesn’t know what to say or what to make of it. Izaya seems to be expecting some kind of reaction, but his body isn’t responding. His mind is blank, empty, not helping. Izaya isn’t _nice_ , he can’t be _nice_. He’s not necessarily constantly planning his demise, and Shizuo knows he’s only a part-time asshole because he easily gets lost in thoughts, but he doesn’t do _nice_ unless he’s got a good reason. Unfortunately, until now, Izaya’s end motives have always been bad.

Shizuo doesn’t want to let whatever weird companionship they’ve managed to attain go to waste. One time, he’d made the mistake of pushing Izaya away, and he’s certainly not going to go through this again. It’s pretty clear from the way Izaya is staring, it's visible in the coldness of his eyes and in the sharpness of his jaws, that rejection isn’t a viable option – has never been. 

Shizuo runs a hand through his hair. “Ah… Yeah, you’re right.” He tries on a small grin that makes his cheeks uncomfortably itch. There’s satisfaction pulling at Izaya’s mouth but also something like hurt veiling his eyes.

“Thank you,” Shizuo mumbles and even though he means them, the words leave him with an unpleasant taste. He doesn’t believe it’s guilt anymore; he’s thought about it enough to come to the conclusion that this is shame. Shame of himself for getting so close to the one he used to despise; shame of himself for having been wrong about him for so long.

Izaya isn’t a good person. Izaya doesn’t have to do half of the things he does. Izaya is a rotten fruit, wasted potential, poison.

But now Shizuo acknowledges some of their similarities, he can’t condemn Izaya without condemning himself. He can’t deny him a second chance without denying it to himself. In the end, maybe it’s selfish. Maybe it’s just an excuse, a clever trick of the mind, because it’s easier to see the good in anyone that isn’t himself, just like it was easier, before, to hate Izaya than to hate himself.

Maybe things have changed and will change, but people don’t.

 _They_ won’t, but Shizuo doesn’t mind. It’s just a matter of perspective.

Izaya smiles back, bows his head and turns on his heels, casually waving goodbye as he does so. Shizuo watches his dark and brittle frame be swallowed by the moving, endless tide of people, yet his presence remains at his side like the old imprint of a cigarette burn on the surface of his life.


End file.
